Click-Clack
by Angel's Anthem
Summary: The first time he'd ever seen her was at a pub in London. The second time was inside the gulag as Prisoner 626. The third time? Staring down the barrel of his gun.


**A/N:** So we've read stories about female leads taking their place in the Task Force for being "badass" or "having connects," but we haven't read her joining their cause through a few shots of liquor, a piano, and a lie? Have we? I had a vision to bring action and romance together again in a new light. Please enjoy the first chapter! If you have any questions, PM me.

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_"The world is not to be put in order. The world **is** order. It is for **us** to harmonize with this order."  
_

"Eh!" the sergeant slurred, raising a nonchalant finger to gain the barkeep's attention - as if his sudden outburst hadn't already. "Keep 'em comin', mate."

There was a ruffle in clothing and clank. In seconds, another pint of ale slid down the counter. He stared at the bubbling liquid until it skidded to a complete stop in front of his face. He eyed it for a moment as the fizz gurgled and the foam overwhelmed the rim, pouring over in a furious stream of caramel-brown. He nodded agreeably, scooping it up with two fingers by the handle. It was early two o'clock on a rather bleak Sunday morning. The light patter of rain reminded him of those endless nights he spent in Brazil, rotting away by the hands of _Roba._

_Roba. _Just thinking the bastard's name created a lurking sour taste on his tongue.

He visibly shivered, gulping down the last of his alcohol only to want more.

This time, his finger only made it halfway up into the air before it trembled and fell against the wooden bar, too tired to move anymore. Even so, the bartender flashed him a gleaming smile of yellow teeth, filled his third jug of whiskey with foam, and put it in front of his face. Just like before.

_Drink away your sorrows, aye? _

As if the tart beverage thawed out his hearing, the humming in his ears faded into a rhythmic tune. The soft lingering sounds were coming from a shady corner of the pub. You had to get past a begrudging maze of scattered pairs of tables and chairs just to reach the wicker piano. It was on a platform lit by a single bulb hovering above a lone woman. As the battle honed soldier peered behind his shoulder he sat _bewildered_. Her eyes were concealed by a fancy fedora and her lips were stained blood-red. Even in his drunken state, he detected a hint of peppermint and... _cotton candy? _

His head spun as the brood of alcohol swam through his core. Her fingers moved at an incredible speed, dancing across a blur of black and white keys. He was in a trance. _That music_. That music made him forget. For a moment, he had all but forgotten about the war. About the torture he had endured. About the friends he had lost. He sneered, licking his lips. He felt unworthy to listen to something so beautiful and flawless. And, he wasn't about to make his past an excuse to hear something so captivating. So liberating. The world was a dark, unforgiving spit of forsaken land, and, at that very moment, Simon truly believed that the notes she was playing so placidly with her fingers was the last shred, the last morsel of _hope _incarnate.

With wobbling knees and an incoming headache, Simon ignored his half-empty glass of liquor and left the bare counter. He trudged across the room, it, too, was spinning just to mock him, until he bumped into the headboard of the piano. The player didn't even flinch. He moved to her side, being mindful of his distance though, and watch as she swayed to the rapid beat. A row of white teeth cracked through her lips as she flickered her eyes up at the drunken man.

He didn't notice, however, for his glassy eyes never left her dancing fingers. He mused, stifling a laugh. She didn't even have to look down at the keys to play the song anymore.

"Your hands know how t'make a man happy," Simon mumbled, gripping the piano for support.

This earned him a soothing giggle. "You like what you hear?"

He opened his mouth to answer, but closed it almost instantly when a wave of nausea beat at his stomach in convulsing heat waves. His unmistakable expression was more than enough explanation.

She nodded, understanding, "Come to drink away the hurt?"

Her voice was... genuine. Almost as if she were trying to say, _I know what you're feeling. You are not alone. _

Simon's core was drowning in liquor. He wanted to saying something, but wasn't quite sure if he could trust his words anymore.

But her fingers kept dancing. And dancing. And all he did was listen. And listen. After a few moments, the tune had shifted. The rhythm was no longer rapid, but soft and slow. Reminiscent. It was then that he noticed a chain of dog tags wrapped around her palm like a rosary. Simon glared at it, determining what sort of purpose it could possibly have on someone so different from war. He was angry. It was infuriating. It _absolutely _did _not _belong. Furrowing his eyebrows, he prodded at the piece of metal with an unsteady finger as if to ask about them.

"United States Air Force." Her words were quiet.

He wanted to know more. "Belong to a spouse?"

She chuckled. "No. They're mine."

Simon shook his head, furiously. "NO."

She was started at first, "I don't understa-"

"NO." Was his answer. "NO. NO. NO. There s'_no _way someone so beautiful could ever take part in a bloody _war_..." He accused gruffly.

He watched as the tips of her mouth curved under. Her eyes fell needlessly onto her fingers as they_ continued_ to dance. And dance. And dance. Even through drunk, blurry vision, Simon could tell that he had offended his pianist.

"I'm truly sorry you feel that way." Again, there was no hint of sarcasm. No frustration. No anger. It was _genuine. _

"It's jus' impossible," Simon muttered, determined. _By God he was going to speak his mind, drunk or not. _

"You'd be surprised how war can change a person..." she whispered. Simon was sure she had intended for that to be a comment more to herself than to him.

"Impossible," Simon mumbled. "You should leave- get out b'fore this_ fucking_ war slaughters th' las' bit a beauty- good we have left... 'n this world..." To the pianist's surprise, the drunken stranger was already halfway out the door, mumbling to himself even though his words, no doubt, were meant for her.

He stumbled along, his mind was all but asleep, but his feet knew where to take him. He kept mumbling those words in a desperate manner. As if he would forget them later, but wasn't quite ready to let them go. Perhaps he should have said goodbye before leaving. _Oh, what was the point in it all._ It wasn't like he would ever see her again.

_You'd be a fool to forget a face like that, Simon.  
_

And all the while, the pub empty of all her patrons and the rain relentless, her fingers refused to stop.

They danced. And they dance. And they danced.

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**A/N:** So, tell me what you think?


End file.
